


Time and Tide

by lapillus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapillus/pseuds/lapillus
Summary: A pensive Mulder on a lovely day on an island in Maine with Krycek





	Time and Tide

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Time and Tide by Carol S

22 September 1998

RATING: NC-17, barely (M/K)  
NOTES:Inspiration in equal parts to CKing for asking for the rest of the story and for JiM for reminding me how much I miss the coast.  
SUMMARY: A pensive Mulder on a lovely day on an island in Maine with Krycek. Still no plot :-)  
ARCHIVE: Please ask first, but I'll probably say yes  
DISCLAIMERS: CC, Fox and 1013 can have them back after their vacation  
THANKS to Pollyanna for untangling tenses and finding the words that fell trough the cracks and to RB for cutting large sentences into manageable chunks. Don't blame them for any of the remaining problems.   
FEEDBACK: Please! Good? Bad? Ugly? Let me know at 

* * *

Time and Tide  
By Carol S

"You think too much," he says quietly as he wraps his arm around my waist. I know he's right. Sometimes you have to take a break from doing and simply be, just to remember why it is worth continuing.

He's done his best all day to keep me from thinking. We did finally make it down to the shore this morning, even if the distraction of getting there meant it was half-gone by the time we made it. It was worth the delay, though. I don't think that I will ever get enough of that joyful light in his eyes when he has, just once, gotten what he truly wants. 

And high tide is better for swimming, anyway. 

We abandoned our clothing on the pink granite and waded into the stinging water, screaming at the chill, happily splashing like boys. It was so good to be back in the cleansing ocean again the suffocating chemical warmth of swimming pools. Then I was cutting through the water, racing to the mooring and back. As I returned, I saw him standing there, glorious, thigh deep in water, lust and longing darkening his eyes. I swam over to where he was and swallowed whole what was so temptingly proffered. I felt his legs tremble as I held them. I was filled with his salty warmth within and cradled by the salty cold without and all was perfection. 

Too soon he put a hand under my arm, urging me upright. "Come on, Mulder, I've known day old corpses that are warmer than you."

As I stood, I staggered slightly at the sudden weight of my own body. "Yeah, but I'm more fun," I grinned.

He leaned over and kissed me. Hard.

We slipped over rockweed to the ledges above and lay down to bake in the mid-day sun. The granite was pleasantly rough on my back. I heard the shrill whistle of an osprey riding the thermals above us. I rolled over and looked at him drowsing beside me. He was beautiful. He had never let me see him like this -- naked, illuminated, vulnerable to my stare. Always before had been clothing, or darkness, or simply the blinding speed of passion. Now what his life had done to him was as clear as what wind and water had done to the rocks he lay on and he had no more reason to be ashamed than they. He flinched when I kissed the nearest scar but relaxed then moaned as I continued to explore with my lips, my tongue, my teeth. Well most of him did. I ignored that and continue my exploring despite his increasing moans until I found myself flipped on my back, his mouth on my face and neck and his groin grinding into mine. I respond in kind, heedless of the roughness I lay on, the slight pain pushing me over the edge. The sky is lapis, his eyes, malachite.

Back at the house we piled into the shower together both wanting to get rid of the itch of drying salt and semen. I found myself pressed face first against the smooth white tiles, his hand caressing me with harsh hand-made soap. There was a tongue in my ear and an enticing hardness at my ass. We smelled of rosemary and sage. He giggled as he heard my stomach grumble. 

I would never have guessed that he cooked. I tried not to embarrass myself when he asked me to chop things; even one-handed he was better in the kitchen than I -- all competence and casual precision. 

Dinner tonight was fresh corn muffins and a seafood stew rich with butter and cream and overflowing with fresh scallops, clams, good local potatoes, and a heretical bit of red onion. Neither of us said much; words have too often been a wall between for either of us to risk them unnecessarily these days. The silence was companionable and content. 

But now, at the edges of evening, the thoughts have returned. I have been staring out over the bay at the Maxfield Parrish sunset and barely noticing the brilliant wash of color filling the sky, too absorbed by what I know and what I fear to enjoy this vivid reality. But he will not let me remain in that familiar safety of distance. His hand caresses my torso, then wanders lower and suddenly I am fully back in the here and now. The warmth of his body pressed against my back is a welcome contrast to the cool evening breeze that is all that is keeping us from being eaten alive by mosquitoes. The water carries the quiet cries of distant gulls and the deep-throated knell of the bell buoy off the ledges. We stand this way a long time until the colors above and below us fade to dark ghosts of themselves.

I would stand here longer, but he says, "Let me give you what you need," and pulls me inside and up to the bedroom.

When did he make the bed? 

Then I have no more time to wonder as pushes me down on the clean white sheets. He is all controlled passion now and I can tell the gentleness of his kisses costs him. That passion is infectious and suddenly all I want is to be lost to it, to not have to think about why I am here today and why I can not be here tomorrow. I reach up to undress him, but he will not let me hurry this and traps my hand above my head as he carefully tastes every inch of my exposed skin, licking my eyelids, nibbling my earlobe, sucking hard on my fingers. Everywhere he touches is cold fire and I squirm and moan, wanting more, begging for it. Intent on his task, he ignores my imprecations. When he has explored every available inch of my skin he bares more until all of my clothes have been replaced by kisses. This time when I reach to remove his shirt he lets me, staring into my eyes. I savor the intensity of gaze, hungry and happy. 

"Roll over," he says when we are both naked. And I turn onto my stomach and feel the anticipation build in me. The bed shifts as he moves to straddle my hips and then again as he reaches for something on the nightstand, pressing hard against me. The oil is warm from his hand and smells of sandalwood and something green as he massages my arms and neck and shoulders. His one-handed approach does not feel lopsided, merely focused, so quintessentially him. I feel myself relax as he works his way down my back, expecting that action will pick up soon and the banked fire between my legs will be freed. But he surprises me and turns around instead. I hear myself whimper quietly with frustration. "Just relax, we have all night," he purrs and starts to massage one leg then the other, all the way down to my toes. He works his way back up my legs and this time does not stop when he gets to someplace interesting. Warm, slick fingers spiral into me, first one, then a second and finally an ecstatic third, relaxing and exciting at the same time. 

His voice is husky, rough and almost breathless with desire when he asks, "How do you want it?"

"I want to see you." 

He shifts just enough for me to roll on my back before he covers me with his body, his mouth hungry against mine and his hand teasing me into iron hardness as I hug him tight. I want to the weight of him on every inch of me. I feel his legs push mine apart and moan with loss and desire as he kneels back and places a pillow under my hips. Then he is in me and my legs are wrapped around him, insistent, as I rise to meet his thrusts. The rest of the world fades away and there is only us and the ecstasy that we struggle towards together -- its fire forging our solitary selves into one united being before burning us to ash.

I slowly become aware of the weight on my chest and the hand languidly stroking my hair. We lie like this for a long time unwilling to break the peace of the moment and sleep takes us. 

When I awake again, his head is still pillowed on my chest, as moonlight pours in the skylights and floods the bed with milky light and waves lap quietly on the shore below. I wish we could stay in this quietly illuminated peace forever. His breath is warm on my neck. I pull his arm tighter around my waist, my fingers twining his, and try to forget that this will all be over with the dawn. 

  
****************************************************************************  
and 

Nothing is...more likely to delight a reader than variety of circumstances and the vicissitudes of fortune. Even though we found no pleasure in experiencing them, we enjoy reading about them: there is some something delectable in calm remembrance of a past sorrow. -- Cicero


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